Under a darkening sky
she kneels on pleading earth
and digs with fragile fingers
into soil that does not complain
but offers itself,
a little sacred womb of dirt.
The clouds turn ominous,
giddy with their disturbance,
thundering their hymns
of coming doom.
Shadows seep and spread
like oil from a leaky drum.
Late light lies low, but
it knows how to work though.
First flakes fall, rumors,
a storm’s campaign promises.
She keeps on, on one knee,
planting her heart in hope,
set not on what may be
but the seed that is now,
held in the soil, hidden
from ice’s passing curse,
knowing, as only earth knows,
a season yet to come.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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